It began not with an army—but with silence.
Three nights before the full moon, the winds stopped. No birds. No wolves. Just the fog, thick and unnatural, creeping down from the northern woods like a living thing.
At first, the people of Vireloch thought it was just another winter mist. But then the scouts stopped returning.
And the bells—those strung along the outer forests to warn of beast movement—fell quiet.
Zareena stood atop the western watchtower at dawn, staring into the grey wall pressing against the treeline. She said nothing for a long time. Then, simply:
"Double the wards. Ready the Grey Circle."
Below, the city trembled with tension. Mages etched sigils into stone and wood. Children were ushered into the fortified temple. Archers took positions on the gate wall. Every blacksmith worked without pause—swords, spears, enchanted nails for barricades.
But the fog did not attack.
It watched.
Over the next two days:
Animals fled the region.
A patrol returned with only one survivor—mad, frozen, muttering about "eyes in the snow."
The air smelled like rot and incense.
Then, on the third night, Seredin emerged from the library vaults with a parchment in his shaking hands. His voice was grave.
"It is no fog. It is a veil. And it marks the presence of something ancient… something that devours the boundary between life and death."
Zareena gathered her captains and advisors.
"How long before it reaches the city?"
"It's already here," Seredin whispered.
That night, in the alley behind the old chapel, three guards were found—drained of blood, skin covered in frost, expressions twisted in terror. There were no wounds. Only black marks on their chests. Runes.
The runes of the Hollow King.
Zareena convened the Council. Some urged evacuation. Some wanted to send word to the capital.
But she stood calmly in the center of the hall, cloak dusted in snow, sword at her hip.
"We are alone. And we will not run. Let the fog come. We'll light the fires so high they'll see them from the Crown City."
And in that moment, even the most frightened among them straightened their backs.
Because their lady did not flinch.
Because the Frost Queen had spoken
Midnight,
As night fell, a scream echoed across the hills—high and inhuman. The gates of Vireloch groaned under unseen pressure. Ward sigils sparked.
And from the fog, a single bone-white creature stepped forward, dragging a broken soldier's helm in one claw.
Then more followed.
And the snow began to fall again.